Jasper Jones (30 page)

I read it through and sigh and strip the page from the pad. I scrunch it into a ball the size of a walnut. But I don’t throw it away. I place it in my top drawer, even though it’s the worst poem ever contrived.

Stuff it. The world is beating me tonight. My brain is a big, sluggish pink mollusk. I toss my pen aside, frustrated. I rest my head on my crossed forearms and close my eyes. And I go to my Manhattan ballroom for solace.

I grip the lectern onstage, my gold trophy resting in front of me. The applause has stopped abruptly, and what remains is a slightly awkward, confused silence. Somebody coughs. I glance down and notice
the engraving on the gilt edge of my prize. It’s not mine. It never was. Two blue-suited men with shades sweep in from the wings and grab my arms. As they lead me away, I look out into the crowd and see Papa Hemingway shaking his head at a bemused Harper Lee, as if to suggest he too has no idea who I am and what I’m doing onstage. Norman Mailer is grinning smugly. People are tittering. Kerouac and Kesey are under a chandelier, giggling to themselves. Roaring now, these cruel fictioneers, all so smart and assured. I’m horribly embarrassed. I glance to my left and see Truman Capote holding a copy of my poem, cringing and rolling his eyes. And the blue suits lead me blessedly away from their cruel laughter, to someplace dark and quiet.

***

And then the noises pull me back to Corrigan.

I lift my head and frown. At first I notice banging, faint from here. And then shouting. I hear car doors slamming. Then a dog barking. I wonder what the ruckus is, who it belongs to.

When it persists, I am compelled to go find out. I slip quietly out of my room and into the living room. I peel back the curtain and survey the street. Something is happening outside Jeffrey’s house. My brick sinks and I gasp. I see four men destroying An Lu’s garden, headlit by their own truck. It doesn’t seem real through this glass. They pull at his flowers, his small shrubs, uprooting everything, throwing the heavier stuff at the house. I’m afraid: more so when the veranda light comes on and An Lu steps outside. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s speaking to them. He has his palms out, like he’s calmly asking for an explanation. Then he points at his garden. But they don’t stop tearing it up until it’s almost razed. He’s walking down his steps slowly. He looks confused. I am shaking.

An Lu doesn’t fall down when they hit him in the face. He buckles, but he still stands. He holds his arms out, but they grab him and pull him and keep hitting him. In the body and the face.

It’s only when I see Jeffrey and Mrs. Lu at the open doorway that I surface and scream for my dad. My father bursts out of his study. He
says nothing, he just follows my gaze. My mother comes out from the bedroom in a thin nightdress, frowning and asking what the matter is. My dad peers out our window.

Then he’s out our front door, running at them. I am so scared, but I follow him out. I’m running too. The road is still warm under my bare feet. The night is hot and still. Mrs. Lu is screaming. She’s holding Jeffrey back; he is slapping at her grip, but she’s got him firm. An Lu is on the ground now. Huddled on their front lawn. And they keep going. They hit and spit on him. Swinging and kicking. I can hear them shouting:
Red rat! Fucking red rat!
My father is shouting too as he runs. Demanding that they stop. But they don’t. I find myself shouting too, shrill. Other veranda lights come on. My father catches up. He’s so tall. He’s so goddamned tall. And I watch as he rips one of the men away and pushes hard at another. There’s grunting and the smacking sounds of flesh. Someone takes a swing at my dad, but he’s too swift for it. He rocks back like a boxer, lets it slide in front of him. And he’s stepping between them and An Lu, who is crawling back toward the steps on his haunches. I can hear him wheezing. My dad has one of them by the collar, a stocky younger man a head shorter than him. He’s got him at arm’s length, pressing his shirt into his throat. My dad is gritting his teeth, telling him to leave off. Amid it all, I’m shocked to note that he is the stronger of the two. The men have a dog chained to back of their truck, white with a black patch around its eye. It’s testing its tether, gnashing and barking.

One of the other men steps in to take my dad and I yell out, but behind me, Harry Rawlings from next door has leapt the asbestos fence that divides the two yards and wraps his arms around the assailant. Harry is a broad, copper-haired truck driver and four times regional log-chop champion, and when he wrestles the wiry body to the ground, it stays down.

“Stay there, you bastard!” Harry orders.

The two other men have pushed back toward the truck, but another neighbor from across the road, Roy Sparkman, who is dressed
in khaki workshorts and nothing else, has slipped the keys from the ignition and now walks toward the scene. There’s a strange silence that follows the cutting of the engine. The dog hushes and whimpers. I notice that almost the whole street has come alight, couples looking on from front steps, keeping their inquisitive kids indoors.

After a brief pause, the youngest of the four men breaks away and bolts down the street. I hear Maggie Sparkman screeching and upbraiding him from across the road as he runs: “It’s not like we don’t know who y’are, James Trent! You’re a bloody
disgrace
! I know your
mother
! You should
all
be ashamed of yerselves!”

The stocky man in my father’s clasp suddenly pulls away, ready to scrap, but he backs down when Harry Rawlings steps up and Roy Sparkman falls in behind. My father smooths his shirt and goes to An Lu, who is sitting on the step. Mrs. Lu, sensing it’s safe to approach, releases Jeffrey and crouches over An.

Jeffrey, pent up and furious like I’ve never seen, takes a running dash at the wiry man on the ground, lining up a kick to his face. Mrs. Lu screams at him, holding out her arm. But Harry Rawlings moves fast and collects Jeffrey before he can fully swing his leg, lifting him up easily in a strong tackle. Jeffrey claws and flails to get free, like an angry cat, but Harry has him firm. He plants Jeffrey back on the veranda, holding his shoulders until he’s calmed down.

“Charlie, get him inside, will you, please?” my father asks, looking up from his inspection of An Lu’s face. I tentatively approach Jeffrey, but I know I’ll never get him to move. I stand beside him, ready to hold him if he goes again. But Jeffrey Lu, who was the toast of this town just hours before, stands quietly. He breathes quickly and deeply and holds a level gaze over these men.

The oldest of them walks back from the truck, a little unsteady on his feet. He kicks a clump of jasmine that has adhered itself to his boot. I suspect he might be drunk.

“Give me my fuckin keys, Roy. This is none of your business.”

“When you’re in my street, it’s my business.”

“Strike me, you need a red star, you lot,” he sneers.

“Fuck off,” says Harry Rawlings. “It’s not his fault you pissed away your job, you worthless bastard. It’s got nuthin to do with him.”

“Don’t it, now? You big sack of shit. Listen to yerself. Jesus
Christ
, you’re all sittin on your hands. He’s
involved
. He’s red. He’s a
red! fucking! rat!
” He leans forward and spits those words at An Lu. “He’s got a fuckin card. I know it. He probably killed that young girl. Go back to Hanoi,
rats.
”

Harry takes two steps and delivers a swift backhander to his jaw. The dog pulls and barks in a frenzy. I freeze. The man, Mick, keeps his head turned. He spits blood.

“You want some more?” Harry steps up again.

“Leave it,” warns Roy Sparkman, who tosses the keys back, hitting Mick in the chest. “Here. Piss off home. We can deal with this shit in the morning.”

Mick snatches his keys from the grass. I’m not afraid anymore. The two other men have slunk back to the truck. Mick looks up at Harry Rawlings.

“You just watch yourself, son. You don’t know a fuckin thing. None of youse do. You’re everythin what’s wrong with this country. Use your eyes! The rats are here and they’re breedin, mark my words. They’re fuckin breedin.”

“Go
home
!” my father explodes. He stands up, tall and intimidating. He glares with real anger. And I can’t help but feel a blush of pride, seeing it. I’ve been wrong about him.

The truck shudders to a start. The engine roars. And they tear up strips of lawn with their tires before they scream down the street. They leave a very strange silence behind them. Folks move back into their homes, ushering their kids to bed. My dad helps An Lu to his feet.

“I’m so sorry, An,” he says.

An Lu shakes his head and waves him away, offering a thin smile. He climbs the stairs stiffly, his wife under his arm. She’s crying. An looks shaken and hurt, but still quiet and dignified. Seeing him struggle cuts
straight through me. My eyes sting and I have to look away. My dad follows as far as the door. He leans on the doorframe and says words to them that I can’t hear, but they seem comforting. I feel like I should be doing the same for Jeffrey, but I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing. I don’t have the right words in me.

Roy Sparkman is standing with Harry Rawlings on the lawn. He calls out to Jeffrey.

“Well batted today, kid. I didn’t see it, but I heard all about it. They tell me you’re the last ball hero, am I right? What’d you make, forty odd?”

Jeffrey nods absently.

“Forty-three,” I say. I don’t know why I feel the need to clarify it. Maybe I want to distract Jeffrey with his own success.

“Forty-three!” Roy exclaims and whistles, and he seeks and holds Jeffrey’s eyes. “Well, you should be bloody proud of yourself. You keep your head up, orright? Y’hear me? You did a great thing today. And no one can take that off you. You understand?”

Jeffrey nods. He shuffles his feet. He stays quiet, his face giving nothing away. He reminds me of An. He’s flipped a switch on himself.

I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t speak, but I know it is time for us to go. He moves past me, onto the lawn.

Before we leave, I put my own hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder, my thumb pressing on his collarbone, trying to transmit the reassuring things I want to say. He nods and tightens his lips. He moves inside.

The street has shut its doors. I tread heavily down the steps and meet my father, who is talking to Harry and Roy. He bids them goodnight and absently lays his arm around my shoulder. It feels comfortable and protective and I don’t mind at all. I really don’t. And we walk all the way back to the house like that. Stunned. To be honest, I’m close to tears, and there’s something about my proximity to my father that seems to urge them further. But I blink them away and suck in air.

At our front door, my father pauses and holds me to him. He moves away first and looks me in the eye.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Charlie. You okay?”

“I don’t know. No. Not really.” I shrug and look away.

“Well, I’m not either, if that makes you feel any better. I feel lousy,” he says.

We stand there for a time.

“Why did that just
happen
? Why would anyone do that to An?”

My father breathes in deeply, carefully crafting a response, but he’s interrupted by my mother, who opens the door and calls us in.

We sit at our kitchen table. It’s strange. None of us are tired. Neither do we know what to say.

After a time, my father gets up and fusses around our drawers and cupboards. He sits back down with a pack of cards, a bottle of port, and three small glasses. My mother frowns at the third glass, but she lets it pass.

I shuffle as he pours out three plum-colored measures. My mother gets a yellow pad and a pen. I hand the cards across and my dad deals. He hasn’t answered my question, so I ask him again.

He sighs. “Mick Thompson is a coward and a fool. He’s a man who’s trapped in his own gutter. See, it’s those sharks in the dark again, Charlie. For some folks, it’s easier to condemn another man than have the strength to right your own wrongs. But he’ll get his one day, because for every one of him, there are a dozen Harry Rawlingses ready to stand in his way.”

I nod, my head bowed, though I still don’t understand a thing. It doesn’t seem to be enough to fit what I’ve just seen at all. But I don’t want to press him further on it. My mother leans forward and touches my arm.

“Don’t worry about An, Charlie. He’ll be all right. He’s strong as a bull, and so is Jeffrey.” She takes a pull of her port. “God Almighty, it’s been a
torrid
few weeks. I don’t know what is happening to this town.”

I look through my hand and wait for her to sound off about Everything That’s Wrong with Corrigan, but she doesn’t. She sifts through her cards and tuts.

“Once again, Wes, you’ve dealt me the worst hand imaginable.”

“It matters not, dear. You’ll still somehow engineer an impossible victory,” he says.

“I think not,
dear
. You’re not sitting where I am. These cards are about as useful as a chocolate teapot. I can’t do a thing. You’re not dealing anymore. You’re banned.”

And so we sit and play canasta until it’s late. It’s hot, and there’s plenty of banter, and things are remarkably civil. Our kitchen fan whirrs and stirs above us. I take tentative sips at my port, feeling like I’m getting away with something.

Just as my father predicted, my mother still beats the pants off us. She’s crafty and relentless at cards, especially canasta. My dad always lays his melds too early, and I never seem to get the right cards when I need them. But my mother is uncanny. She always hoards her hand, cursing her luck, giving nothing away until she suddenly presents her columns in one satisfied flurry, grinning.

My dad and I groan as she neatly lays down her last card. She reaches for the pen and the tally.

“Add em up, boys,” she gloats.

“How does she keep doing this to us, Charlie?”

“Because I’m brilliant. And I have fine instincts.”

“I think she cheats,” my dad says to me, shielding his mouth with his hands and winking.

“If you sorry lot ever became a threat, maybe then I’d consider being underhanded. But I’ve got no need to bend the rules. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”